ourselves
by Susan Bell
Summary: Eren likes holding hands.


This road looks like it goes on forever  
But it has an end  
And you can only walk it once  
We want to take detours  
And even build escape routes  
But there's no point in doing it alone  
And the only thing  
Of any real value  
Has to be love

ourselves  
2017

Eren likes holding hands.

He will never say it aloud but the feeling of another human beings skin on his reassures him. It anchors him, grounding his pain and rage. Sometimes it's Armin to place his hand over Eren's, his blue eyes full of gentle warning. Sometimes it's Hange, clasping his hands in excitement over a days experimentation. Once it was Sasha, gripping his hand as she slipped him an extra baked potato. She had given his hand an extra squeeze, winking cheekily, before darting off to sneak more food.

Mostly, it's Mikasa who holds his hand.

Her hands are at once rough and smooth, a gentle weight resting in his.

He pretends to protest, outwardly muttering around being coddled and babied but he never lets go and Mikasa inwardly smirks.

His favorite hand to hold had been his mother's, when he was small. Her hands were rough and smelled of soap and lemons and kitchen spices. He had gone through a long phase when he had had to do everything while holding her hand. He feared to let her go, to lose the connection between them. It made using the toilet problematic but Carla never protested.

Mikasa's hand is his favorite now, because it reminds him that he had been the strong one, the one to bring comfort to someone else on the very worst day of her life. It reminds him that not all is lost; as long as he is strong and fighting there is hope. They can defeat the Titans. Perhaps most of them will die but they will never stop fighting. They will keep going until they have all the answers and there are no more secrets.

In the morning, there will be more training, more experiments, more tests to harder his Titan form. Even though it leaves him breathless and frustrated and ragged, Mikasa is there to hold his hand and bring him back to himself.

He winces, thinking back to that afternoon, snapping at her, harshly telling her he didn't need her to baby him.

He doesn't, he thinks stubbornly, but he does depend on her.

He will never say this to her face.

He knows he should apologize and he groans at the thought. Words are what Armin is good at.

He entertains the thought of Armin writing an eloquent apology to Mikasa on Eren's behalf but he knows his friend will not give in.

"It has to come from your own heart, Eren," Armin would say sternly.

"Argh."

He is sitting against a tree and he knocks the back of his head against the trunk in frustration.

The first time Eren had held Mikasa's hand had been the night their lives had changed forever. Walking down the mountain, Grisha, Mikasa, Eren all quiet and reflecting on their own thoughts. Mikasa's hands were clamped together, perhaps in a prayer. Eren had noticed they were trembling and wordlessly reached out, lacing his fingers through hers. She had stiffened a little, at first, but she smiled under her new scarf, calmed by Eren's small gesture.

Today Mikasa had tried to take his hand, all tender reassurance and instead he had yanked away, hissing his frustration at her. He worries that will be the last time they hold hands.

Unless he apologizes.

There is a rustling of leaves along the dirt path and Eren tenses. There are no Titans here, but it could be any of his comrades, come to lecture him for being out so late.

Instead, it is Mikasa and perhaps she will scold him. Her expression is wary and weary as she approaches him.

"I don't want to fight," she says, sitting gingerly beside him.

Eren nods earnestly.

"Look, about earlier-" he begins quickly but a sharp shake of her head stops him.

"No."

"Wha-no?!" Eren splutters, bewildered.

"You don't need to apologize. I know," she says. She looks very tired as she leans her head against the trunk of the tree.

"But," he starts again and this time she interrupts him by taking his hand.

Eren is rarely affectionate and clumsy when he is. His mother would consider it her greatest failure, this gruff, stoic little boy who carried the weight of the world on his shoulders.

Eren squeezes her hand tightly, thinking of Mikasa, of Armin, of Carla, of the friends he had lost. He squeezes her hand because he cannot say how grateful he is to her that she is always looking out for him, that he can hold her hand and feel like himself again. That he would be lost without her.

Maybe she can tell, because she turns her head to the side and smiles faintly at him.

He is kind, in an awkwardly harsh sort of way. When he brings her hand to his lips, his brilliant green eyes narrow with a sort of steely determination he reserved for training, for Titan killing. For trying to be tender toward Mikasa. She swallows a laugh at this idiocy but she knows he is trying and she is grateful. She kisses his jawline, breathing in the scent of cinnamon and grass and oiled leather. His eyes narrow further and he squeezes her hand even tighter.

He is terrible with words. They stick in his throat and come tumbling out in a jarring, raving mess. He can scream but he feels that screaming in Mikasa's face is hardly warranted.

Armin would tell him to be gentle but that is a word lost upon Eren. All he has is action.

So he returns her kiss, just below her earlobe. Her breath hitches slightly but she does not shove him away. She smiles inwardly and rests her head on his shoulder, curling closer to him. He closes his eyes, breathing evenly, relaxed for the first time in days. The sun sets and they both know they need to go back. But they sit, reviling in the quiet, easy peace of simply being together, holding hands.


End file.
